though. I didn't know that drug fiends were still making use of those abandoned buildings for activities that would've blown my mind, or that the swollen hands on the man leaning against a telephone pole by himself--eyes flickering, head nodding--were telltale signs of needle injections. I walked past neighbors whose eyes overflowed with desperation and depression, people who had watched their once-proud neighborhood become synonymous with the collapse of the American inner city.
With every step on those cracked sidewalks, I passed a new signifier of urban decay. But I didn't even realize it. I was a kid, and just happy to get out of the house. The people I passed would look me up and down, and I would look back, give the traditional head nod, and then go back to practicing my crossover dribble.
I finally arrived at the courts and saw a handful of guys playing three on three. They all looked a little older than me, or at least bigger than me. I quickly realized they were all better than me, too. The red iron rims had no nets, and since there was no real give on the rims, every shot ended as either a silent swish or a high-bouncing brick. Although I was intimidated, I called "next" because I knew my deadline for going back to the house was quickly approaching.
I was practicing my lefty dribble next to the iron gate that surrounded the courts when one of the guys fell hard to the ground. He had been accidentally hit in the face while driving to the basket. Blood trickled from his mouth. He quickly walked off to get some water and clean his face. No foul was called. I would soon learn that calling fouls just wasn't done.
The players realized they were short one man. The group looked at me, seemingly all at once, since I was now the only person on the sidelines.
"You good to run?" one of the boys asked me.
I dug up all the confidence I had, placed my basketball on the ground, and began to walk toward them. My oversize sneakers clopped on the court like a pair of Clydesdale hooves. My new teammates called out their names as I gave each of them a quick dap, an informal greeting of clasped hands and bumped chests.
"What's up. I'm Oz."
"What's going on. Deshawn."
I played hard, lost pretty bad, but enjoyed every minute of it. These kids were different from my friends back in Maryland. I quickly started to pick up on their lingo and style, the swagger of my new teammates and neighborhood friends.
From this first moment on a Bronx court, I could tell there was something special about it. The basketball court is a strange patch of neutral ground, a meeting place for every element of a neighborhood's cohort of young men. You'd find the high school phenoms running circles around the overweight has-beens, guys who'd effortlessly played above-the-rim years ago now trying to catch their breath and salvage what was left of their once-stylish games. You'd find the drug dealers there, mostly playing the sidelines, betting major money on pickup games and amateur tournaments but occasionally stepping onto the court, smelling like a fresh haircut and with gear on that was too fine for sweating in. But even they couldn't resist getting a little run in--and God help you if you played them too hard, or stepped on their brand-new Nike Air Force Ones.
You'd find the scrubs talking smack a mile a minute and the church boys who didn't even bother changing out of their pointy shoes and button-up shirts. You'd find the freelance thugs pushing off for rebounds, and the A students, quietly showing off silky jump shots and then running back downcourt eyes down, trying not to look too pleased with themselves. There would be the dude sweating through his post office uniform when he should've been delivering mail, and the brother who'd just come back from doing a bid in jail--you could tell by his chiseled arms and intense stare, and the cautious smile he offered every time a passing car would honk and the driver yell out his name, welcoming him
With every step on those cracked sidewalks, I passed a new signifier of urban decay. But I didn't even realize it. I was a kid, and just happy to get out of the house. The people I passed would look me up and down, and I would look back, give the traditional head nod, and then go back to practicing my crossover dribble.
I finally arrived at the courts and saw a handful of guys playing three on three. They all looked a little older than me, or at least bigger than me. I quickly realized they were all better than me, too. The red iron rims had no nets, and since there was no real give on the rims, every shot ended as either a silent swish or a high-bouncing brick. Although I was intimidated, I called "next" because I knew my deadline for going back to the house was quickly approaching.
I was practicing my lefty dribble next to the iron gate that surrounded the courts when one of the guys fell hard to the ground. He had been accidentally hit in the face while driving to the basket. Blood trickled from his mouth. He quickly walked off to get some water and clean his face. No foul was called. I would soon learn that calling fouls just wasn't done.
The players realized they were short one man. The group looked at me, seemingly all at once, since I was now the only person on the sidelines.
"You good to run?" one of the boys asked me.
I dug up all the confidence I had, placed my basketball on the ground, and began to walk toward them. My oversize sneakers clopped on the court like a pair of Clydesdale hooves. My new teammates called out their names as I gave each of them a quick dap, an informal greeting of clasped hands and bumped chests.
"What's up. I'm Oz."
"What's going on. Deshawn."
I played hard, lost pretty bad, but enjoyed every minute of it. These kids were different from my friends back in Maryland. I quickly started to pick up on their lingo and style, the swagger of my new teammates and neighborhood friends.
From this first moment on a Bronx court, I could tell there was something special about it. The basketball court is a strange patch of neutral ground, a meeting place for every element of a neighborhood's cohort of young men. You'd find the high school phenoms running circles around the overweight has-beens, guys who'd effortlessly played above-the-rim years ago now trying to catch their breath and salvage what was left of their once-stylish games. You'd find the drug dealers there, mostly playing the sidelines, betting major money on pickup games and amateur tournaments but occasionally stepping onto the court, smelling like a fresh haircut and with gear on that was too fine for sweating in. But even they couldn't resist getting a little run in--and God help you if you played them too hard, or stepped on their brand-new Nike Air Force Ones.
You'd find the scrubs talking smack a mile a minute and the church boys who didn't even bother changing out of their pointy shoes and button-up shirts. You'd find the freelance thugs pushing off for rebounds, and the A students, quietly showing off silky jump shots and then running back downcourt eyes down, trying not to look too pleased with themselves. There would be the dude sweating through his post office uniform when he should've been delivering mail, and the brother who'd just come back from doing a bid in jail--you could tell by his chiseled arms and intense stare, and the cautious smile he offered every time a passing car would honk and the driver yell out his name, welcoming him
Similar Books
